


Catharsis (Conversations with the Crew)

by YRU



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Dreams, Fluff, Hurt Spock, Love Confessions, M/M, Oblivious Spock, Post-Star Trek: Into Darkness, Slow Burn, Star Trek: Into Darkness, T'hy'la
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-05
Updated: 2016-09-21
Packaged: 2018-07-29 12:42:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7684933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YRU/pseuds/YRU
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few months after Jim is revived, a restless Spock is still plagued by nightmares and flashbacks. They all revolve around the same thing: Jim is dying, Jim is dead, Jim will be dead.<br/><br/>Of course, the rest of the <i>Enterprise</i> crew is there to help. With every serendipitous interaction he has with his fellow crew members, logic points to emotion as the answer, and Spock finds himself — as always — pushed to his wit’s end by the enigma that is Jim Kirk.<br/><br/>*** ON HIATUS. NOT ABANDONED! ***</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chekov (Lost in Translation)

**Author's Note:**

> "Not another Spock-realises-Jim-is-his-t'hy'la fic!!" you yell. Or do you? I don't know. I've seen a lot of fics in AO3 with this same overarching concept, but like... it's good stuff. This is my first fanfic ever on Star Trek, or on AO3, or ever (unless you count the one High School Musical chapter I wrote almost a decade ago lol) so I hope it's readable. :-)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chekov has Spock thinking.

_There are stars. Radiant, burning stars in the distance. Supernovas. They fall from the sky, from space, from the darkness above. They flare with a purity you could only find in the middle of a flame. Then, there are flames. White-hot magma spews out from beneath crumbling rock and it licks the ground as if in search of prey. There is a grumble, like hell were hungry. The cracks forming below his feet look like a path illuminated — a fantastical stairway to the end of time. He could swear the molten liquid boiling under the rocks was pure gold. He could almost touch it, but not quite. Yet he knew without touching that it would feel as real on his fingers as his own flesh and muscle simmering and blistering in the volcanic heat… as real as warm human skin on his—_  

Spock’s eyelids cracked open. _That was new._

The hum of the heat regulator filled the dimmed quarters, like a lulling assurance that he was safe in the Enterprise, and not in the middle of a Nibiruan volcano about to erupt. Not close to death. He heard the familiar gentle breathing beside him, where Uhura was curled up with one arm against her cheek and the other extended in Spock’s direction. Fully clothed, of course. They had not made love in weeks. He laid there for a minute, collecting his thoughts, and then compartmentalising them based on their soundness in logic, so he could tell himself as he did multiple times before: _Dreams have no part in reality._

And yet Spock knew, at this point, that this was not as true as he had once been able to believe. First of all, his nightmares were becoming so frequent and so troubling that he had put off sleeping at all for two weeks at a time. This would have been fine for a half-Vulcan such as himself, with the exception of these biweekly night’s rests being disrupted time after time by emotionally-charged dreams, which brought along with them an immense mental exhaustion. And even though Spock could keep his head up during work, as First Officer of the starship, he would have preferred to be functioning at full capacity instead of a wavering three-fifths. Accompanying all that, was the fact that these were really, in essence, only half dreams. They were memories.

However, this was a memory his mind had not tread in a while. Majority of his nightmares about death before tonight had revolved around Jim, not himself. At times, Captain Pike would find his way into these dreams as well, but the overriding sense of dread would meld and dissolve, and sculpt like a marble effigy a dying Jim Kirk, always with his blue eyes gazing from a pallid face in semblance of a grotesque doll. Sometimes the glass door would separate them, and other times their hands would meet palm-to-palm. Which was worse, Spock could not tell. He did not exactly favour the idea of spending his time considering symbolism, however, so he did not try to. All he needed was time to rationalise.

_Dreams have no part in reality. Dreams have no part in reality. Dreams have no part in reality._

It was his favourite new mantra. He meditated to the voice in his head that whispered it almost fiercely, but as though wires in his brain had been cut or a fuse had gone, a flashback to Jim’s limp body would grip his feeble mantra by the throat and wring it, laughing in its face. He had stopped needing to sleep to have nightmares. 

So he rose from his bed, deciding for the twenty-ninth time in four-point-five months that if he was going to grapple with these memories whether he was asleep, in a trance, or awake, he might as well be awake so he could be productive towards his ship and his crew. Or, well, three-fifths productive.

He quietly made his way around the quarters to get ready for the day, careful not to wake Uhura. Truth was, he had not told her about his dreams or visions, and was doubly cautious of letting his shields down when he was around her. Spock knew she was attempting nothing but comfort, but when she slipped her hands into his every now and then as she always did, he felt sickened by the sense that someone was prying into him. The lovely, brilliant Nyota was once a breath of fresh air to him, and arguably still was, except recently it had started to feel more like a rosebush growing in the middle of a rancid swamp. She impressed upon him an aura of love and peacefulness amid the turmoil, but he knew he would one day pluck her every stem and shed her of her lush foliage. She would not flourish with him any longer than he would with her. And yet, she was too familiar to let go. It would only accelerate his waxing losses, and he had lost enough. He could only be in control of that much grief at a time.

The mess hall was only slightly filled when Spock walked in, with smatterings of red, blue and yellow nestled in groups, at various ends of the room. He ignored the small but buzzing crowd, making his way to retrieve his breakfast from a replicator. Fruit, salad and yogurt on his tray, he scanned the hall for a spot with the largest possible radius from every other person, and seated himself there. 

_Shields up._

The solitude did not last long, however, when an animated presence planted itself beside him on the bench. He did not know how, but it was as though he could _hear_  it smiling.

“ _Ha'tha ti’lu,_ ” a bright voice greeted with slow deliberation, thick Russian accent in tact. “Commander!”

Spock turned his head to face a beaming Pavel Chekov, whose expectant countenance he could not help but smile at, even if ever so slightly.

“Good morning to you too, Officer,” Spock replied, and went back to chasing a tomato in his salad with a fork.

“Ah — _du… muhl?_ ” the boy tried.

Spock let out a short chortle, causing Chekov’s eyes to light up. The Vulcan quipped under his breath, “ _Ring. Arie’amp heh ma k’oh-nar._ ”

At this point, Chekov’s eyebrows were so scrunched up together, Spock wondered if he had ever seen an elderly human with as many wrinkles on their forehead as the teenage boy had on his in that moment.

“I’m sorry, sir, can you repeat that again? Slower, this time.”

Spock simply smirked. “Are you attempting to build greater solidarity between us by conversing with me in my native language?”

“Ah — well — I do hope to learn more about you, sir!” Chekov responded, his cheeks turning pink. “But I must admit, today I am trying to learn more _from_ you.”

Spock waited.

“I would like to master the W— _Vulcan_ language. During my free time, I have actually been reading and trying to translate _The Teachings of Surak._ You see, when I was in the Academy, I took an elective on Extraterrestrial Cultures and Societies, and especially took interest in your planet and your customs, your philosophies!”

“Extraterrestrial Cultures and Societies,” Spock repeated, the hint of disbelief only barely evident. “I find it fascinating that your focus has always been in theoretical physics, and that you topped your class in transporter theory and stellar cartography, yet you chose to take a Humanities elective.”

“You find it illogical, sir?”

“I believe I said ‘fascinating’.”

Chekov smiled gently.

“I do hope you are knowledgeable of the fact that _The Teachings of Surak_ have long been translated into English, so it would be unnecessary for you to master the Vulcan language, if your intention is to read them with ease or to translate them,” Spock said.

“Oh, I know, sir!” the boy laughed. “No, no, I am reading Skon’s English-translated versions, but I am trying to translate the _Teachings_ into Russian.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Then mastering Vulcan would still be unnecessary.”

“I would beg to differ, sir. I would like to read the original scriptures as well, because I believe that every language has its own words and phrases that… sometimes cannot be so easily translated. It would change the meaning and the real heart of it. For example, in Russia, we have a word: ‘toska’. It means sadness — melancholy. No, pain. No, lovesick! An emptiness when you have lost or cannot have someone you love or—ahthereistoomuchdepth—you see what I mean, sir? So just imagine if this happened not once, but twice; Vulcan to English, English to Russian! There would be too much room for error and misinterpretation!”

_Toska. Fascinating._

“I do appreciate your earnest,” Spock said, a beat later. “And I wish you good luck.”

Chekov began to say something — probably in Vulcan, considering his widened eyes and hesitant tongue — when he was cut off by their Captain, who had swaggered his way into the mess hall to join them. He picked up an untouched apple on Spock’s tray and took a large bite out of it.

“What are we talking about, then?” he asked, mid-chew.

As Chekov started to explain to Jim Kirk his translative endeavours, Spock chose the moment to tune out and examine the Captain’s face. It always glowed, like the sun had personally held his face in its warm hands and planted rambunctious kisses all over it. He probably had been under the sun a lot when he was on Earth. The trail of freckles across the highest points of his face, however faint, told you that much. Yet his skin was soft and pleasant, as rugged as he could sometimes look on a hectic day. Spock knew because he remembered from the time he touched his face when he was still recovering from… Spock stopped himself, and focused on the living and breathing Jim before him again. His cheeks had a delicate flush about them, like he had always just stepped off a treadmill. The sort of rosiness an athlete would have, so you knew their blood was coursing like fuel through their veins, and that they were ready for anything. A bloom you would only see on somebody filled with spirit, with life. _Life._

All of a sudden, Jim’s face was pale and grey again. There was no more flush. The light had gone from his eyes. Then the dead man’s lips parted with a crack.

“Spock?”

Spock blinked, and realised his body was tense and clammy. He was gripping his fork in a strange way, as if he were about to stab something. It took all he had to stop himself from trembling as he released the breath he had been holding.

“Spock, are you feeling all right?” Jim asked quietly. When Spock remained silent, he grinned a little and said teasingly, “I won’t take your fruit in the future, okay?”

_Dreams have no part in reality. Dreams have no part in reality._

Spock shook his head and made a dismissive gesture towards the quarter-eaten apple in Jim’s hand, as if to say in his earnest Vulcan manner that it was not a problem. “Forgive me, I was mistaken. I thought I saw something—” he paused and searched his mind. “— odd.”

Jim chuckled, “Well, you were staring at me, so that’s not great to hear. What, is my hair getting too big for my head again?”

The Vulcan began to speak, ‘no-I-find-that-your-hair-suits-your-cranium-very-nicely’ at the tip of his tongue, but Jim went on, “Right, so what _do_ you think of all this, Spock?”

_What did he think of what?_

“The Commander has given me his blessings!” Chekov proclaimed.

_Ah, that._

“And so, if you don’t mind, sir.” He pulled out his PADD and placed it on the table. With a few quick taps and strokes, and then several tentative ones when he came to a page full of Golic Vulcan, he opened a self-created, dictionary-like spreadsheet. As he was navigating his PADD, Jim took the opportunity to shoot Spock a bemused, handsome grin, to which the latter found himself blushing at. Luckily, Chekov blurted that he had finally found what he was looking for, and Jim peered over to look at the PADD instead of the green blooming about Spock’s ears.

Chekov pointed out a familiar lexeme to the Vulcan. 

“ _Shan’hal’lak,_ ” the boy sounded out carefully, and glanced at Spock eagerly as if to register what the native speaker thought of his pronunciation. “Could you explain to me, in your own words, what that means to Vulcans?”

“Well, didn’t you put the definition in right here, Chekov?” Jim pointed to the text in the adjacent cell and read out, “Love. At. First. Sight.”

“That is indeed a common translation, yes. But the phrase does carry within it a much deeper, emotional layer of meaning,” Spock murmured.

“What could be deeper than love at first sight, Spock?” Jim jested. “And really? Vulcans and emotional layers?”

“ _Shan’hal’lak_ is an emotional engulfment. A submergence into, a consumption by, an inundation of feeling. Humans have the phrase ‘bone-deep’. I suspect such a feeling would be symptomatic of _shan’hal’lak_. For Vulcans, emotions are profound. As you are in the process of reading the _Teachings of Surak,_ ” Spock looked at Chekov square in the face. _“_ I assume _you_ know this well.”

Chekov swallowed. “I—I do, sir! Which is why I’m so intrigued! Romance isn’t just romance for you, is it?”

Spock went silent.

“No, it is not,” he finally said. 

“Lucky Uhura,” Jim quipped dryly, mouth full of pilfered fruit.

“I am not sure I—”

“And this one, sir?” Chekov interrupted. “ _T’hy’la?_ ”

The silence returned. Spock knew the answer to this. He had known what its definition was since he was a child when his parents explained it to him, and when the elders married him to T’Pring. He was never able to fully understand what it meant then, however, as T’Pring had broken the bond before he could find out. He was not sure he knew what it meant now, either. To be one with another, to be another as one.

“Friend, brother, lover, lifelong soulmate,” he listed impassively. As soon as the words left his mouth, it felt like they would fall flat onto his tray.

“What does meeting your _t’hy’la_ feel like? Is it _shan’hal’lak_?” Chekov inquired thoughtfully. “Or must love… or that feeling you have… be formed with effort, before you know someone is your _t’hy’la_?”

Spock half-expected Jim to say something at this point for the banter, but even he appeared interested in Spock’s answer. From his experience with T’Pring, he formulated an adequate response.

“I believe to truly become each other’s _t’hy’la_ , the two must be actively bonded. Not just in the ceremonial sense of the word, but simply, the two must find what it is about the other that makes them _t’hy’la_. It is a divine compatibility that only mutual spiritual effort can realise. You make each other better, whole.”

“So then if you… _lose_ your _t’hy’la,_ or if your _t’hy’la_ lost you, _—_ not that I would want that to happen to you, sir — do you lose that type of connection forever?” Chekov asked. When he saw the Vulcan freeze, he squeakily added, “I would just like to understand how rare such a bond is. Sir.”

The question was innocuous, but it felt like an interrogation to Spock’s groggy-enough mind. Like a blinding light had be shoved in front of his face, and a Centaurian slug was about to be dropped down his throat. He feltlike he was treading dangerous waters at a time when he was doing all he could to avert such emotional rumination. He curtly said, “One can have more than one t’hy’la.” which caught Chekov’s attention so well, the boy immediately began to make a note in his PADD, along with a reflective series of other questions he could ask.

“How do you even know when you’ve met someone like that?” Jim asked suddenly, his voice earnest and low, as if he only needed Spock to hear it.

“I do not know for certain, Jim,” Spock replied, his voice in the same low tone, because he only wanted Jim to hear it.

Jim read his face for a second with his piercing eyes, then, as if nothing had happened, turnedaway and remarked mirthfully into the open, “Well, Chekov, I’m not sure if you just got a Vulcan linguistics lesson or a crash course on dating!”

“Isn’t it captivating, Captain!” Chekov exclaimed, and then entertained himself with the realisation that the two words sounded so alike.

“I find the ensign’s sincerity in this project to be respectable. And as my planet has been destroyed and its heritage endured by but a few thousand, this has the potential to be a small step towards helping more people understand our species,” Spock said.

“A small step,” Jim parroted to Chekov, chuckling. “I love this Vulcan, he’s so honest.”

Spock held himself back from saying he probably loved Jim too.

* * *

Glossary

_ "Ha'tha ti’lu": _ Good morning

_"du... mahl?":_ You... well? / Are you well?  


_"Ring. Arie’amp heh ma k’oh-nar.":_ Not in the least. I am emotionally mad and have a fear of losing control.  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> I wanted to open the fic with Chekov because I'm heartbroken as every other fan about Anton Yelchin's passing. The translation bit was inspired by Chris Pine talking about him in the Star Trek: Beyond press conference, and how he had been translating a Russian neo-expressionist book of some sort for the longest time. Chekov also doesn't usually play a large role in majority of K/S fics as other characters (at least the ones I've read so far), so here's my frail salute to Anton's version of such a brilliant character. I wish we could've kept seeing him grow in upcoming movies.
> 
> If you do happen to actually like my writing, I should let you know that updates may be slow because I'm starting uni in less than 60 hours, and I'm writing this fic to keep myself sane. 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! :-)


	2. Bones (I'm A Doctor, Not A Poet)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bones has a word with Spock about the merits of emotion.

Fatigue was draped over Spock.

He sat leaned back in his chair, forcing his eyes open every so often to check if anyone on the bridge was looking in his direction. The last time he had done so, he observed that the crew had their eyes glued to their work, hands moving deftly across their individual touch screens with a level of concentration Spock could not even fathom in his current state of mind. He did not wish to give the impression that it was acceptable to shirk one’s responsibilities while on duty, or “slack off” and “half-ass things”, as Jim called it. The captain’s seat was empty. He shut his eyes again — or rather, he merely did not resist the weight on his lids — and attempted to meditate.

His mind and body were working in a curious asynchrony. While he was in dire need of uninterrupted physical repose, mentally he found himself sharpened to a point of freneticism. Perhaps, simply, such a contradiction stemmed from non-stop cognitive expenditure which, after all, was facilitated by the same singular brain that allowed the rest of his body function. That, along with the fact that he was running on zero-point-three-eight times the amount of rest he usually did with a constant workload, made the paradox a perfectly reasonable outcome. Yet, there was still a sense of divergence between the two faculties. A discreteness about his mental and physical unrests that had Spock wondering if one was causing the other, or if both were caused by something much larger than himself. Whatever it was, it engendered such a cruelly impartial ache.

He opened his eyes again. In his peripheral vision he saw the whip of Uhura’s ponytail as she turned away warily. She had been watching. He wondered for how long. He stared as her elegant fingers, as though by habit or instinct, went to the Vulcan amulet resting below her throat to twiddle with the blue stone. He remembered for a moment how his mother used to do the same thing when she was worried. He felt a hot prick in his eyes, and this time his lids came together because he squeezed them shut.

The closest thing he could describe the kind of weight he felt on him — _in_ him — was the heavy curtains in the foyer of his childhood home. His mother used to take so much pride in them. She made them herself, from the blackout lining she had brought with her from Earth, and some intricate jacquard fabric she purchased from a small Vulcan boutique, where the Vulcan lady behind the counter always told her how enthralling human eyes looked. She chose to take it as a compliment, even after Spock bluntly mentioned one day that the lady most likely took interest in her eyes the same way one might find a perverted joy in scrutinising the appendages of an alien carcass, on exhibit in a museum.

_“Spock! Don’t be morbid!”_ she had chided him.

He remembered playing in the curtains. Or at least, “play” was what his mother called it. He would inform her that he was, in actuality, evaluating their efficacy in preventing sunshine and heat from entering the house. And indeed he was, but he was also letting the dense cloth caress his face, and slip in and out of his little hands by the whims of gravity, and however far he managed to pull them away so they would fall back into him again. He would stand with one side of his body kissed by the sun, and the other shrouded in the darkness that the opaque fabric casted into the room; he would feel his left cheek burning up in the amber light while his right cheek began to feel cool in comparison in the shadows; he would stand there, his blood half-hot and half-cold.

_“I take full credit for the hot side,”_ his mother had said laughingly when he told her of the sensation.

How strange it felt to remember she and the heavy curtains and the Vulcan heat were gone forever. How quickly and unpredictably people and planets could be taken away.

“Spock.”

He woke with a slight start to find himself gazing into a Terran sea. No, they were eyes — only very blue eyes.

“Jim.” Spock’s voice came out as a croak. When had he come onto the bridge? Did he always smell like this?

“Are you feeling okay?” Jim asked. His eyes were so bright and soft-looking Spock had to remind himself that human eyeballs comprised a layer of collagen fibres and were not, in fact, made of midnight orchid petals stitched together by gossamer thread.

Jim reached a hand out to touch Spock gently on the arm. The tall Vulcan unfolded himself and sank further down into the back of his chair. The proximity was making his head spin. Or perhaps it was the warm tingle of Jim’s breath on his upper lip. Or the wet dilation in his eyes—

Spock swivelled his chair sideways in one swift motion, and then nearly crawled out of it. Keeping his eyes to the floor, he inched past a now nonplussed Jim, and mumbled to no one in particular, “I am going to lie down for a short… indefinite… while.”

He had already made his way into the Turbolift when he heard Jim awkwardly call out from outside, “Okay, well, Bones wanted to see you and he’s not in a great mood, so…” The last thing he heard before the doors slid shut was Uhura starting to speak. He breathed a sigh of relief as the lift descended.

_Alone._

All he required was a half-hour of respite, and he would have sufficient energy to resume work. He just needed to get to his room undisturbed. The thought of an empty, darkened room and a soft bed was… pleasurable.

Needless to say, his luck with the universe was fully depleted. The lift stopped a few levels too soon, and the doors opened on the floor of the medical bay, which was when Spock’s breath hitched.

“Hello, Spock.” The caustic air of Leonard “Bones” McCoy’s voice was apparent as ever.

“Salutations, Dr. McCoy,” Spock forced, as Bones ambled into the lift. Social interaction was rather tedious nowadays, especially with someone as trying as the chief medical officer. Of course, this was the same sentiment Bones had towards the Vulcan as well.

“I was just about to visit your quarters, actually,” he said, a side of his mouth twitching up into a stiff half-smile. “You haven’t had a medical check-up in more than three months, and I was going to hound you about it.”

“I have been extremely occupied with… certain matters,” was Spock’s tedious reply. “And there is little to re-examine. I continue to be functional.”

“Yeah, you’re _functional_ , all right,” Bones groused under his breath.

The lift doors opened again on the crew quarters floor, and Bones followed Spock out. “You know, with all this time you’ve been spending with Jim, I think he’s rubbing off on you.”

“The captain and I have engaged in no such physical contact.”

“What? No, I didn’t mean you fellas— What I’m trying to say is you’re beginning to give the same lousy excuses he does!”

“What you interpret as an excuse, I see as reason,” Spock said, stolidly. He placed his thumb on the fingerprint scanner by his room door until he heard the click of the lock, and the door slid open. He raised his brows as if to end the conversation there.

“Don’t talk ‘rationality’ with me, Spock. Try helping me write a rational report back to headquarters on why I can’t account for the health of the captain or the commander or half the goddamn crew on this ship, _who obviously don’t take me very seriously!_ ”

Spock wondered if it was wise to simply leave the doctor standing there as he had initially intended to do. His face was almost fully purple at this point, which could not have been normal. Spock swore he even caught the glimmer of a tear in his eye. _How odd._

“I believe it would be wise to lower your heart rate, Doctor.”

“Please, nerve-pinch me in the heart so I can get it down to zero,” Bones answered wryly.

“That is not possi—”

“Right. I know. Jesus.” He crouched down onto the chrome white floor and slumped himself against the wall facing Spock’s still-open door, a weary look of chagrin on his face.

Spock looked to the warm vacant room beckoning to him, then back at the dejected-looking man on the ground. It was only logical to ensure the chief medical officer was not about to go into a mental breakdown mid-mission. He slowly stepped away from his room, reluctance tugging at his drooping eyes, and perched himself on the ground next to Bones. The sight of the two of them, seated on the floor like the galaxy’s most unlikely juvenile delinquents and even unlikelier pals, would have been comical to anyone passing by. Thankfully, no one did.

“I sense that you are troubled by something, perhaps unrelated to my not obliging you,” Spock stated drowsily, after an excruciating period of silence. “I gather this from the fact that Captain Kirk has many a-time gone against your wishes, and yet you have never quite looked so… despondent.” Bones remained quietly brooding, so he let himself ramble on. “Of course, I am not the captain. That is, I am not Jim. And therefore, a dissimilar reaction would not be completely unlikely.”

“You’re not very good at just being quiet, are you?” Bones said.

Something told Spock he was not required to answer the question.

“It’s my fuckin’ wedding anniversary today,” Bones finally spat out.

“Are you not divorced?”

“Exactly.” The rugged doctor looked down at his nails as if they were of any interest to him. He exhaled noisily, and then grunted something about Chekov not letting him have any of his whisky. “As if the kid can finish all that alcohol.”

“Time is relative, Doctor. If it is of any comfort, the day of your anniversary is already past, and continues to pass,” Spock said.

Bones made a sound between a scoff and a chuckle. “I’m not even gonna try and understand how time relativity applies to this. Especially since it’s not the point.”

“What is the point then, Doctor?”

Bones bit down on his lip for a moment. When he released it from between his teeth, Spock watched how the colour flowed back into the whitened flesh, and wondered to himself how much more effort it might take for someone as irascible as Dr. McCoy to suppress his emotions.

“Speed is the point,” he said, brows furrowing as if he just figured it out. “How quick people are to fall in love with each other. How _not_ quick they are to realise. How quick they are to get into a relationship when they do. How _not_ quick they are in knowing when the relationship is turning futile. How quick they are in moving on when they finally do. Things like that, y’know?”

“I am uncertain,” Spock replied after a pause.

“Well, that’s a first.” Bones let out a genuine guffaw.

“What is it about the speed at which these things occur that unsettles you?”

“God, I don’t know. I’m a doctor, not a poet! It just pisses me off, and it makes me wanna drink till I pass out and forget what I was so pissed about.” Bones snapped, but he pondered over the question. “The speeds make no sense. They have nothing to do with how significant something really is as it's happening. It’s this never-ending cycle of thinking about the meaning of all these _things_ happening, realising absolutely _nothing_ has meaning, and then having to think some _more_ so you can _give it_ meaning. And all for naught, if you ask me. But here I am, still trying." He ran his hands through his hair. " _And_ with no alcohol to help.”

Spock tried a question in his head before asking aloud, “Was it the unsustainability of emotions between that you and your ex-wife that you found distressing?”

Bones chewed on the idea for a second, then shook his head. “More like the unsustainability of meaning. Like I said, nothing about the warm and fuzzies really makes a lot of sense, but… everyone wants sense. Even when two people feel everything for each other, one of them’s still gonna need to think of a reason _why._ As if they have to make sure it’s ‘true love’ and all that bullshit, by piling on layers and layers of weird, abstract requirements. Like what the hell does ‘eventual convergence of careers’ even mean, man?”

"She wanted the two of you to be closer to each other in your work."

"Well, there was that. There was also this idea Pam had that marriage was supposed to be like 'enlightenment', or some other sophisticated nonsense."

"She looked to your relationship as a spiritual experience."

"I don't doubt it," Bones mumbled. "And it's not that I didn't see it that way at all. I just found it simpler to be as... _tangible_ as possible. Know what I mean? If you feel something for someone, you don't question the meaning of it, and you just do what you do when you love someone." His voice had lost its grating quality. "There's no need to keep _searching_ for something specific."

“I would venture that your ex-wife simply valued reflection and introspection more than you did, Doctor.”

Bones’ eyebrows shot up in legitimate umbrage. “Oh, no, no, no. Turns out, we just had different ideas about love. Listen, I value self-awareness, Spock. Don’t think the only place that comes from is sitting in your dark broom cupboard, thinking about something you did _a-b-c_ years ago and how it suggests _x-y-z_ about you." He looked away with a shake of his head and snorted to himself. "Introspection comes from opening yourself up too, not just closing yourself in a hot air balloon and letting your head float in the clouds.”

Spock was quick to retaliate. “Do not assume that those who compose their thoughts and feelings inwardly are wholly self-serving. On the contrary, mastering the control of one’s emotions allows one to react outwardly in the wisest manner possible. Not only for oneself, but for the world.” He heard the words escape his mouth like a well-rehearsed monologue. And in truth, it was. Partly due to habit, and partly due to the fact that he did not have the strength to think of another response.

Bones shifted so his whole body faced the Vulcan. He straightened, the melancholy just swimming in his eyes now transformed into resolution. “See, I can understand — even respect — you hobgoblins and your frightening self-possession, but it’s just where we’re different. I let myself feel what I feel, so I know how much someone or something really matters to me. There are times when the world has nothing to do with your gut,—” he jabbed Spock in the side. “— you know that?” He stopped for a moment, before a trace of disappointment stained his expression. "Frankly, I’m surprised you still say the same shit with the same type of conviction. Even after everything that's happened.”

There was a lull in the conversation. Spock felt his head buzzing. The blood was draining from his extremities. He really needed to lie down. “To what are you referring, exactly?” he inquired softly, even though he knew what was coming.

“Jim killing himself because it was the logical thing to do? You completely losing control? Remember that?”

Spock remembered. It came back to him in the image of Jim's hand pressed on the glass, and that was when he blacked out.

_*****_

_The colour of old lace. The scent of wood. The taste of dust in the back of the throat. The light stroke of heavy fabric as the ground beneath shook. The voice. To his left, Jim was gasping for air behind the window, face pressed stiffly against the glass. His breath condensed on it; the hint of moisture was becoming fainter and fainter. The Vulcan horizon in the far distance was changing with the quake, the hills crashing into the earth. He could not reach Jim. He was rooted to the spot, half his body prickling from an ice-cold grip and the other half burning like he had swallowed a sun. He tried to move any of his limbs, but the weight of the drapes had wrapped itself around him. The rumbling planet was burying Jim. He wanted to call out his name. Screaming trickled into the world as silence. On his right, the voice: “Spock! Don’t be morbid!” He felt his fist smash against the glass—_

“Spock, _fucking hell!_ ”

A loud crash caused the Vulcan to shoot up from the mattress, heart palpitating with heavy intensity. He felt his shirt sticking to his back from the sweat. He looked around to see a bloodied pair of surgical scissors clenched in one of his hands, and a disarray of medical equipment strewn across the floor. Bones had a firm but trembling grip on his armed hand, and on the other side of the bed was a young nurse moaning painfully on the ground, obviously injured.

_Dreams have every part in reality._

“Nurse Chapel, I need some help here!” Bones bellowed to the other side of the medical bay. Another nurse came running in, and she gasped at the sight of a manic Spock and her colleague keeled over, then rushed to help the latter to a bed.

When they were gone, Spock released the pair of scissors and they fell to the floor with a sharp clack. He dared not look at Dr. McCoy in the eyes, even though he knew they were drilling right into him. How did he even get here?

“Spock.” Bones’ voice was low and rasped in his throat. Spock could hear he was slightly shaken. “Your heart rate is off the charts and I almost thought you were having a damn seizure. Tell me this doesn’t happen often.”

Spock breathed unsteadily. “I am afraid I cannot.”

“What happens when you sleep, Spock? Are these dreams?”

“Memories.”

He heard the doctor sigh. “And they’re about Jim?”

Spock’s eyes finally met the doctor’s. “How did you know of this?”

“You kept muttering his name, Spock. Kind of like a hoarse whisper-shouting,” Bones said plainly. But his expression was one of tender concern. “Do you keep losing him?”

“Over and over,” Spock wheezed, and looked down at his hands, marked with vestigial patches of green from the struggle.

Bones swallowed before he dared ask, "What does Jim mean to you?"

There was a still silence, filled at intervals by the sound of the injured nurse, groaning in agony on the other side of the room as Nurse Chapel cleaned his wounds.

Spock glanced upwards to look at Bones again. Apprehension was sitting on the Vulcan's tongue like osmium. Bones swore he could suddenly see the human in his eyes as Spock opened his mouth to answer him.

“Do you have anything — that could help me sleep better?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, thanks for reading!! :-)
> 
> I genuinely hope that my writing style (at least for this fic) doesn't bore you to death, because I'm trying as far as possible to make the narrator voice resemble free indirect discourse, à la Spock. This is partly so I remember it's a Spock-centric fic. I spent literally half the week on a version where Jim felt like the main focus and totally lost the vibe.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter!


	3. Uhura (The Art of Communication)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uhura has known for a while now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is going to be longer than the first two, because I really wanted to get a story in. I hope you enjoy this mish-mash of 'Mudd's Women' from TOS (1x06) and 'Phage' from VOY (1x05)! And of course, Uhura giving it to Spock. (Not in that way.)

_Fascinating._

The adjective was all that crossed Spock’s mind as he sat up in the dark.

He looked to Uhura, laying beside him as usual, except this time with her back facing him squarely. He estimated a sixty-eight per cent chance she had consciously chosen such a position to fall asleep in, and a seventy-five per cent chance she did so as a not-so-tacit display of her vexation. Coils of her long black hair spread across her pillow to his, a sight that evoked the image of vines creeping over a wall. If Spock were not as logical as he were, he would have entertained the idea of his girlfriend having found a way to extend sentience to her follicles, so they too might try to smother him in his sleep.

Not that Uhura wished to _murder_ Spock — although as Bones recently took pleasure in informing him, “She sure does look like it!” Suffocation was, however, what generally came over him whenever she asked what was on his mind, always in a saccharine voice of hers reserved for either coquetry or conflict. The duality kept him on his toes more than she guessed, but when eliciting a comprehensive response from him turned vain, he could not do much to avert her rapier-like eyes narrowing in an attempt to read his face. Jim had once tried to educate him on the female human’s telepathic abilities ( _“Doesn’t matter if Vulcans don’t lie. Earth chicks know when you’re not telling the whole truth!”_ ), which he was having increasing trouble dismissing as mere human myth. He wondered what his father might have to say on the topic.

Spock did find, however, that the sour knot in his stomach had begun to loosen in the last few days. It had been exactly two weeks since he started taking the medication Bones prescribed, after the _incident_ in the medical bay.

“These babies will do for you what benzodiazepines did for me,” the doctor had said with practised nonchalance, placing before the Vulcan a small bottle with crystal-like contents that clicked noisily against the plastic, as if they were made specifically to announce to the world the patient’s shame. “That is, stop you from crying all the time.”

“I do not suffer from crying spells,” Spock had begun to correct him. “And if this medication contains infant children—”

“It was a figure of speech, dammit, just take them!”

And so, Spock took them — after making the doctor explicitly declare that they contained no traces of meat — and the heart palpitations and stomach-churning gradually abated. Repression and suppression became easy again. From the label, stuck neatly over the bottle, he gathered that the crystals were made from a Vulcan mineral known to ‘quell a hyperactive amygdala when consumed’. He remembered the crystal from his adolescent days, when variations of its name peppered conversations amongst his Vulcan acquaintances who were discussing its potential aid in _kolinahr_. _Lerash-khush. Kravau kov. Kai’tan firan._ He wondered if the doctor knew the implications of a Vulcan actually using such a crystal, and then found himself wondering if those implications really mattered. They helped, after all, and that was all Spock needed.

The macabre flashbacks still came in waves every now and then, but they were ripples compared to the crashing tides of memory that used to leave him choking for air. His mind floated safely now. In fact, as he looked upon the woman he was supposed to love, sleeping soundly beside him, Spock realised that the prior disquietude had already numbed into a feeling of complete emptiness.

*****

“Checkma—”

“I demand a rematch.”

Jim had his elbows propped on the table, one of his hands balled into a fist and pressed against his pursed lips, as if he had to physically stop himself from cursing out loud. The other hand was raised towards the chess set, fingers almost touching a knight piece but now frozen mid-air. The game was over, and his First Officer had won. For the second time that evening.

“I am not opposed to it, Captain,” Spock said in his usual uninflected tone. The patronising glint in his eyes would have been lost on anybody else but Jim.

“Of course you aren’t, _Commander_ ,” Jim mimicked. He squinted in mock irritation but his mouth was smiling. As they arranged the pieces back to the default setup, he grumbled, “Just when I thought I was on a winning streak. I beat you every time for the past month! Were you even trying?”

Spock merely lifted a brow in response. His eyes were carefully downcast on the chess pieces in front of him, because any higher and Jim would have caught the flicker of incrimination in his eyes. 

For a while, the Vulcan had been deliberately allowing his mind to go adrift when the two of them played chess. He reasoned to himself that the conscious decision accommodated both his need for mental respite and to maintain rapport with his commanding officer. It was like meditation, except every now and then he had to remember to, indolently, move a chess piece somewhere. Of course, there was also the part of him that quite unambiguously took pleasure in watching Jim’s triumphant expression materialise as the game progressed, much like a lucid daydream. The grin was his favourite part, next to the crinkles by the eyes. Not that he ever thought this outrightly. He just let the warmth bubble in his chest, and owed the sensation to being rested — much more sensible than simply wanting to see Jim _smile_.

This time, however, Spock’s head felt almost too tightly screwed onto his shoulders for his mind to wander. The moves were working themselves out in his head like a computerised algorithm. The concentration was burning behind his eyes. He could have calculated the precise surface area of Jim’s face under a half-minute if he so pleased. Then he might form a graphical equation in line with the curve of his jaw—

“Spock.”

Jim was staring. His irises were at least fifty per cent 305C under the Pantone Matching System. Spock realised the eyes were also full of apprehension.

“Uh,” was all Jim continued to say, before his eyes darted to his left. Spock followed his glance and only then came to notice Uhura, arms crossed, standing right by the table. Besides her usual Starfleet uniform and sleek half-ponytail, she also wore a look of pique.

“Lieutenant.”

“Where is your communicator?” Uhura snapped.

“In my trouser pocket,” Spock answered.

“Why haven’t you been responding to me? I paged you eight times.”

“I did not realise. Perhaps my communicator was turned off. What did you wish to contact me for?”

“ _Perhaps_ it was turned off?” Uhura’s eyes rolled to the back of her skull in incredulity, and her gait switched from one of reprimand to full-on annoyance. “You’re the First Officer of a starship! How would you even allow your only communicative device to be anything but—” She cut herself off abruptly with a deep breath and open palms. “You know what? Never mind. It’s—whatever. I just wanted to ask if you’d seen something of mine around. Maybe you saw it in your quarters this morning and put it away somewhere.”

“What is it?”

Uhura cleared her throat. “The necklace you gave me,” she said noncommittally.

Spock glanced to the area between her clavicles, and saw that the red material of the uniform was missing the faint protrusion today in the spot where the amulet would usually rest underneath. “The last time I recall seeing the amulet was when you were wearing it, Nyota. That was a few days ago. I have not taken notice of it since.”

“Right. Okay.” She nodded and seemed to release a breath she had been holding in, then turned on her heels to leave.

Only a few steps later, however, she halted and strode back to Spock. One of her hands moved nervously to his shoulder, where she placed it with the uncertainty and anticipation one would with an unknown lab specimen. Spock’s own body language, like a risible complement to hers, was that of a lab tribble about to be given a hypo.

“I’m sorry I got mad,” Uhura said quietly, before bending down so her face was next to Spock’s. When he sat there as still as a statue for an uncomfortable length of time, during which everyone in the recreation room tried not to watch — or if they did, not to cringe — she gave him a dry peck on the cheek, stood upright again, and left the table without another word. The hiss of the door shutting behind her was like the room sighing in relief.

Spock tried to avoid looking at Jim, who had been gawking at the interaction between his colleagues with his regular bemusement. A moment passed.

“ _Wow._ ” Jim seemed to drag the vowel out for as long as humanly possible. “You guys are… something else.”

“As opposed to what, Captain?” Spock questioned almost innocently.

“As opposed to most loving couples of three years,” Jim said. He leaned forward, the ghost of a smile playing at his lips. “You should’ve asked her how she came to lose that necklace, you know. Don’t let her live down last night.”

“Why is that? What happened last night?”

“Spock, I know you’re clueless, but not _that_ clueless. Don’t play dumb.”

“I am not ‘playing’ at anything, much less stupidity.”

“Wait, you honestly don’t know?”

“I do not.”

Jim’s eyes widened. He winced, a slow wave of regret passing over his features.

“Are you going to tell me what you were referring to, Captain?” Spock asked.

Jim sucked the air through gritted teeth. “Eh… it’s really not my place to tell you these things, Spock.”

“ _Jim._ ”

It was the drop of formalities more than the hardness in his voice that caught Jim’s attention. He sighed, and said, “All I’m going to say is Uhura spent last night _venting_ after you went to bed. Halfway in, she… probably threw that necklace at a wall somewhere, I dunno.”

Spock stared at him blankly, the sparse dots connecting themselves in his head. “Did you sleep with Nyota?”

“What? _What?_ No, what the hell! She was _drinking_ , Spock — pretty heavily. I’m genuinely surprised at how put together and not-hungover she looks today.” Jim shook his head as if trying to toss an image out of his mind. “I wouldn’t sleep with her, what the heck…”

“You did make advances towards her in your years as a cadet officer,” Spock said plainly, a tapered eyebrow raised.

“Yeah, but I wouldn’t _now_ , because you two—” Jim stopped and shifted back in his chair as an indecipherable look crossed his face. “Look, just go talk to her yourself, all right? I’m not a part of this. I don’t want her to think I’m convincing you to get angry with her. And _don’t_ say you don’t get angry, because you do, with your covert… haughty-passive-aggression thing. I don’t need her coming after me for the second time for ‘trying to break you two up’ or something.”

There was a pregnant pause as Spock parsed his last sentence. “Was there a preceding incident wherein this occurred?”

Jim never got to his answer, because the beep of his communicator interrupted his floundering speech. He yanked the device out of its holder on his belt without much finesse, and spoke into it, “Kirk here. What’s going on?”

“Good evening, Captain,” a voice replied. “Officer Chekov here. I hope I am not disrupting your sleep, sir! I just needed to inform you that we have spotted an unregistered starship north of us. A class J cargo vessel. We have tried to make contact but we are not getting a response.”

“No worries, Mr Chekov, I’m wide awake. I’ll be at the bridge in a minute. Kirk out.” He shut the communicator and turned to Spock with a toothy grin and twinkling eyes. “Duty calls, Commander.”

Spock felt the little tension that had been stirring in his chest since Uhura arrived melt away, for a reason unbeknownst to him. He and the captain rose from their seats in such a synchrony that the crew members in the room could not help but gaze in awe, and watched them as they left for the bridge.

When the two of them arrived, the bridge was relatively calm. Unregistered starships were not exactly an everyday occurrence, but from experience, a large majority of chases did not pose such a ruinous threat that alarms needed to be raised, or that shields even had to be engaged.

“All right, show me this cargo vessel,” Jim said, as he planted himself in the captain’s seat.

In barely a second, magnified on the main viewer was a dark grey, rudimentary starship no more than a quarter the size of the _Enterprise_.

“Lieutenant Uhura, are you still unable to reach the ship?”

“Affirmative, Captain.”

“Is there a malfunction on their ship that’s obstructing communication?”

“No reason to think so, Captain. I’ve been sending transmissions at all frequencies for the last couple of minutes.” Her voice turned just an octave scratchier. “They’re most likely just… ignoring me.”

Spock peered over at Uhura. She was sitting with her back ramrod straight, jaw set and eyes trained on her viewscreen, a strained serenity about her. He struggled to discern if she had made an oblique reference to him or not, and the ease of her speech made it near impossible to tell. The pragmatics of human language and innuendo eluded the Vulcan to no end. He turned to Jim for a sign, and received a half-smirk from the man.

“O-kay, then,” Jim said. “Mr Sulu, you know what to do.”

“Locking them down and giving chase in three, sir,” Sulu responded from the front. And as declared, the _Enterprise_ began its chase seconds after.

“Lieutenant, let it be known to them that we are a Federation ship and we will be taking them into custody if they continue to disregard our orders.”

“No problem, Captain,” Uhura said. “Let’s hope they don’t just _snub_ me again.”

“Don’t take it too personally, Lieutenant,” Jim tried, shooting Spock a knowing look.

“Sorry, it just seriously sucks Klingon balls that they refuse to answer me even though I’ve been trying _so_ hard to reach them, you know?” she said with all her natural charm, not missing a beat.

At this point, everyone on the bridge had on their faces variations of lip-biting and brow-raising. Jim simply shrugged at Spock, who was busy willing his ears from turning a violent shade of green.

“Er, Captain?” Sulu’s voice broke the stillness in the air. “Whoever’s flying that ship has got to be either blind or insane. They’re going right into an asteroid belt.”

“No need to be ableist, Mr Sulu,” Jim quipped. “Chances are, they’re just bad at flying.”

Sulu gave a too-brief chuckle. “Yeah, okay, well—Shiller rating is three-five, sir.”

“Shit.” Any hint of languidness was wiped off the captain’s face. “Deflectors on. Uhura, tell that idiot ship to change course!”

“Captain, the idiot ship is moving into the belt even faster now!” Chekov exclaimed.

Jim narrowed his eyes, bending forward to examine the scene on the viewer. “What is this? Are they trying to lure us into the belt or what?”

“I do not believe this is a trap, Captain,” Spock said. “With such primitive technology, their ship would not be able to withstand the debris. The _Enterprise_ , however, could watch them decimate their own ship and still have a substantial amount of time to warp out of the belt.”

“Sensor reading on the ship says their engines are superheating, sir,” Sulu said. “Aaaand… there goes their engines.”

“I’ve got a transmission!” Uhura exclaimed, vaguely confounded. “It’s a distress signal call. Oh my _god_ , they are idiots…”

“Captain, I would advise that we extend our shields around the ship,” Spock said.

Sulu turned around to look at Spock doubtfully. “They’re too far away. That’s going to blow our power.”

“Cover the vessel with our deflector screens till we beam their passengers up, Mr Sulu,” Jim insisted, and flipped his communicator open. “Bridge to transporter room. Scotty, I need everyone in the vessel we’re locked onto beamed aboard the _Enterprise,_ stat.”

As soon as Scotty responded with a bright “Aye-aye, Captain”, another voice came through to the bridge. “This is the Engine room. Temperatures are passing the danger line.”

Almost instantaneously, the lights flickered above their heads. “That was one of our lithium crystal circuits, sir,” Sulu said, moments before another row of lights went out and a dangerous humming filled the bridge for several seconds. “Another two circuits, sir. Now supplementing with battery power.”

“Kirk to transporter room,” Jim spoke into his communicator, over the anxious chatter in the bridge. “Report.”

“Three have been beamed aboard the _Enterprise,_ sir. That’s all the… people… there were.”

*****

Spock had never come across a species like the one that stood before him. Yet, there was a gnawing familiarity about the tan patchwork of rubbery flesh, stretched like a taut carcass drum skin over the ungainly bodies of their new prisoner-guests. They stared, through somewhat cloudy eyes, at Jim, Spock and Scotty.

“Hello.” The tallest and largest of them was the first to speak, seemingly male and the strongest of the three, although none of them looked especially fit to engage in a brawl or anything of that sort. That would make things much easier.

“From which planet have you and your comrades travelled here?” Spock asked, ignoring the salutation.

The cloddish creatures looked at one another intently and nodded. The leader replied, “Vidiia Prime.”

“I am unfamiliar with the planet and your species. Which part of the galaxy do your people reside?”

The creatures shifted uncomfortably in their spots, but their tortuous physiognomy was barely readable to the two humans and the half-Vulcan. A petite and jumpy Vidiian was peering at Jim with an enraptured look on her heavily ridged face, which one might only decipher from her eyes widening as she looked in his direction. One her eyes was a light hazel colour and the other was coated with a murky white. Sulu was right — they were at least partially _blind_.

“Answer the question,” Jim said, his tone clipped.

“Del-ta Qua-drant,” the leader enunciated, the plosives leaving his swollen lips with a string of spit.

Characteristically, Spock lifted a single brow and Jim’s face remained stoic. Scotty, on the other hand, was openly dumbfounded, and let his jaw drop open at the answer.

“How did ye get here from the Delta Quadrant?” he asked, not hiding his amazement. “Starfleet hasn’t even gone that far before! And your ship was wee and old!”

The third Vidiian that had remained silent so far looked up at Scotty, his ears now pricked up. “Our ship — safe?” he croaked out.

“Sorry, your ship was hit dead centre by an asteroid as soon as we withdrew our shields,” Jim told him unflinchingly. “Would you like to tell us what you were transporting?”

“Parts,” the leader replied, eyes going vapid as the news of their ship registered in his head.

He turned to his comrades, one of whom shrieked in a whisper, “ _Hoch QIH! Hoch 'oH! nuq wIlo'bogh DaH?”_

Jim froze and eyeballed them for a moment, then nodded in Spock’s direction with a meaningful expression. “Commander Spock, I’ll be taking the Vidiians to the interrogation room. I need you to get Lieutenant Uhura. And tell her to be discreet.”

Spock almost immediately turned to carry out his orders, but faltered as the memory of the tedious past hour caught him by his ankles. He decided, in the split second he stood rooted to the spot, that he would put aside such petty indulgence and could probably trust Uhura to do the same in this situation. However, Jim, being Jim, had caught the look of trepidation on the Vulcan’s face as soon as it appeared.

“Uh—okay, wait. Maybe you can take them to the interrogation room instead and I’ll—”

“I will inform the Lieutenant,” Spock cut him off.

He stalked out of the transporter room towards the turbolift, evaluating the possible outcomes of each syntactical choice he could make when he reached the Lieutenant. Was it wise to get straight to the Captain’s orders? Was that excessively impersonal? Uhura was a most affectionate individual. He could attempt a smile first. Or he could send a text transmission through his communicator. Perhaps the paralinguistic ‘emoticon’ feature Jim frequently used could be appropriated. Was it a semicolon-dash-parenthesis or a colon-dash-parenthesis again…?

The doors of the turbolift slid open, and Spock heard the stifled gasp of a woman. The Lieutenant stared back at him from inside. She had a peculiar look on her face.

“Lieutenant.”

“Commander. I was just about to come look for you.”

A thick pause.

“Spock—”

“—Will you be exiting the turbolift or shall I enter? I have been given an order to retrieve you. You are needed in the interrogation room.”

Uhura’s mouth twisted into a tight-lipped smile and she took a step out of the turbolift. It doors proceeded to slide shut and ascend seconds later, effectively deserting her. She extended an arm gracefully in front of them to motion for Spock to lead the way, which he quickly did, hands clasped behind him and nose pointed to the ground.

“Why am I needed?” Uhura asked in a business-like tone.

“We have three new passengers aboard the ship who are allegedly ‘Vidiian’ and of the Delta Quadrant,” a relieved Spock explained. “They can comprehend and speak Federation English, but appear to have a native language which they are openly using amongst themselves. The Captain requires that you discreetly take note of their speech and if possible, interpret their vernacular.”

A wrinkle formed between the communications officer’s brows. “If they’re really from the Delta Quadrant, I can’t guarantee I know anything about their language.”

“I concur. I can only assume the Captain disbelieves their place of origin, or perhaps has hope that their language has familiar derivations.”

“Right.” 

Spock mustered up the courage to glance at her. Uhura was looking straight ahead of them, countenance cryptic as usual. The brown of her lash-framed eyes had a wet sheen over them, illuminated by the fluorescent lights that lit the corridor. The wells under her lower lids had a rather ashen cast to them. He remembered when he used to watch her dab a warm mocha-coloured substance below her eyes in the mornings, when they still woke up and got ready together, muttering under her breath about the joys of ‘concealer’. It seemed like recent weeks had made the substance futile in obscuring the shadows there.

“You don’t have to try to do everything telepathically, Spock,” she suddenly mumbled.

Spock blinked.

Uhura gave a gentle roll of her eyes, but her voice came out patient. Resigned, almost. “You’re always _studying_ me. My body language. Reading my face. Always trying to calculate the chances of me feeling a certain way, instead of just coming right out and asking if I do.”

“I would venture that you do the same on many occasions,” he retorted with much sangfroid.

“I only do it because talking is never an option with you.” She slowed in her step and turned to look him in the eyes, a glint passing hers. “Am I wrong?”

“Nyota, we can speak about this at length another time. When it is more convenient.”

Spock said this as tenderly as he could without losing his stolidity, and the words made her stop in her tracks entirely. His breath hitched when he saw the gleam in her eyes flood her vision. But with a bite of her lip and a prompt flutter of her lashes, the wetness was gone, and the chagrin that had gripped her pointed features waned. “Of course,” she said, then walked faster ahead into the interrogation room.

She paused again, however, when she caught sight of the Vidiians.

They were not pleasant-looking in the least, and even the all-embracing Nyota Uhura could not do much but reel in the doorway for a moment. The Vidiians looked back at her only perfunctorily. They were much less interested in her than they had been in Jim, back in the transporter room — and now, in the interrogation room. Each of them were surveying various parts of Jim’s body with a zealous intensity, from the dirt-blonde hair on his head to his shuffling feet. Both Uhura and Spock were unsure of what to make of the sight, and their captain’s uneasy expression failed to be of help.

“Took you two long enough,” Jim muttered when he saw them. He turned his back to the Vidiians and lowered his voice even further. “They’ve literally been _ogling_ me.”

Spock looked over to the three Vidiians, who had a small unfamiliar device placed on the table in front of them, consisting of a rectangular control and pincer-like probes attached to one end. He nodded towards it. “Does that belong to them?”

“Yeah,” Jim said, eyeing the device. “I got them to empty their pockets and the big one took that out. Said it was a piece of medical equipment, then _scanned_ me with it — hope it’s not some fuckin’ radioactive remote — and they all started getting excited about the reading.”

“Have you questioned them?” Uhura asked.

“I will now that you’re here,” Jim said, before swiftly turning back to the Vidiians. They gazed back at him, and he continued in a voice of authority. “This hearing is convened. Stardate 2260.3, onboard starship _USS Enterprise_. Formal hearings against Vidiian crew. Start computer.”

The green hue of a computer screen flashed from the side of the room.

“State each of your names for the record,” Jim said.

The Vidiians made eyes at one another. Their leader spoke first. “Sulan.”

The computer beeped. _“Correct.”_

The female spoke next. “Danara.”

_“Correct.”_

The last Vidiian spoke. “Eber K’mpenkorn.”

_“Correct.”_

Uhura flinched at the name and the computer’s verdict. A look of puzzlement clouded over her face. Sulan and Danara mirrored her expression for a moment as well, before looking away from each other as though nothing was amiss.

“What is your native planet?” Uhura rushed to ask, before Jim could even begin his next question.

“Vidiia Prime,” Sulan answered.

_“Correct.”_

She shook her head and pointed at the last Vidiian. “I would like Eber to respond, please. What is your native planet?”

Jim and Spock looked at each other quizzically. Their communications officer had obviously caught on to something they had not, which the timorous expression on Eber’s face evinced to be true.

After a bout of tense deliberation, Eber said, “Vidiia Prime.”

_“Incorrect.”_

“The computer is wrong! Eber is from Vidiia Prime!” Sulan clamoured from his seat.

_“Correct.”_

Spock would have sighed in exasperation if he ever did such a thing. The computer was not an omnipotent entity. It evaluated the variations in pitch and frequency in one’s voice to determine if one was speaking with the aplomb only rendered by the sureness of verity. This meant the computer was not fail-proof: it could not differentiate between real and perceived truths. One only had to believe they were speaking the truth for the computer to believe the same. And in this case…

“It appears either one of you is sorely mistaken about your birthplace,” Spock said.

“Don’t mind Eber. He is still, ah, recovering from a major operation to his brain,” Sulan explained. “He is confused.”

_“Correct.”_

“I… do not… know… what happen,” Eber stammered.

_“Correct.”_

“When ship hit—we lost… all body part…”

_“Correct.”_

Sulan glared at Eber at this point and hissed something in a different language, to which Danara responded to by trying to pacify Sulan. Her face showed that she was perhaps defending Eber, who was rocking back and forth in his chair, scratching at the scant patch of hair on his head in what looked like worry. He murmured something to himself audible to almost no one in the room. Uhura peered at his quivering mouth, tilting forward in her seat just a little more.

“ _jIQoS... jIQoS... jIQoS…_ ”

Spock watched as something clicked in the Lieutenant’s head, indicated by the parting of her lips and a revelatory flash in her eyes. She swallowed her surprise and simply paced out of the room in her normal elegance, but not before shooting a look that said “Outside.” Spock’s way. Funnily enough, he thought to himself, it was the plethora of instances in which they had argued over more trivial matters that led to such an internalisation of her silent expressions.

When he met her outside, she had her hands pressed against the sides of her head in bafflement, mouth open but still finding her words.

“This is _so_ weird.”

“Are you aware of what language they are speaking in?”

“They’re not speaking the same language,” Uhura said. “I have no idea what the big one and the little one are saying, but Eber is speaking in _Klingon_.”

“Sulan appears to believe that Eber is from the same planet as he is.”

“He’s got to be, right? I haven’t seen a Klingon that’s looked that…” Uhura trailed off and shuddered. “I don’t know, but even his name is Klingon. I was so confused about that.”

“We will hold the three of them separately. Are you able to question him in Klingon?”

“Yes, of course. What, are you forgetting the time I _negotiated_ with a Klingon army?” she said in a huffy tone.

“Of course not, Lieutenant.”

At his quick response, she smiled and gave him a pat on his stiff shoulder. “Well, I didn’t really. They did try to kill me. Maybe I’m not so great at Klingon after all.”

There was nothing especially humorous to Spock about her words or the memories associated with them, but the air between them suddenly felt lighter, and he felt the side of his mouth turn up slightly. Her gaze softened.

“Nyota, I—”

A resounding crash erupted from inside the room before he could finish. The bluntness of the sound was sickeningly familiar. A body thrown against breaking glass. The pair turned their heads turned to the door, paralysed for a moment, before hurrying to get it open. The door refused to budge. They heard multiple footsteps run across the room inside. Spock mashed his thumb against the fingerprint recognition system impatiently, causing a red “NO ENTRY” and a green “ENTER” to take intermittent turns flashing at them. Whichever the result, however, the door remained sealed.

“Captain!” Uhura yelled, hitting the metal door with her fists. “Captain, is everything okay?”

Spock flipped his communicator open. “Captain, report. _Captain. Jim!_ ”

There was no response. Spock looked at the steel door, and it gloated back at him. It was happening. He had felt it as soon as the crash made its last echoes. He was starting to become aware of his own heartbeat. He could feel a white-hot searing deep in his lungs. He recognised this dizziness to an intimate degree. His hands splayed over the door, and he rested the weight of his body on its surface.

“Spock, are you all right? You’re _shaking_!” Uhura grabbed onto his bicep, unsuccessfully helping him find his footing. He yanked his arm out of her hands, and when she saw his face, she backed away frightfully. His eyes were shooting daggers at and right through her, his nostrils were flared and his jaw twitched. He might as well have snarled. She watched, in terror, as he straightened his arched spine, rolled his shoulders back and shifted his feet apart. His trembling fingers went to the tight seal of the door, the muscles on his back rippling through his blue shirt as he placed his fingers between it, and then began to wrench his hands in opposite directions.

“Spock—” she started to say, but found that she had nothing, and let the name waver and flail as it left her tongue.

Every muscle in his body was taut and engaged. An alarming shade of green was creeping up his neck, and veins protruded from under his skin almost painfully. The creak of metal sounded in the air, and Uhura looked to the door astonished. The sliver of space gradually widened till Spock could fit both his knuckles comfortably between the opening, which was when he let out a grunt and pried the door open in one final motion. He slipped in so quickly that Uhura had not even released her breath when Spock already disappeared into the room.

“ _Jim!_ ”

The Vidiians whipped around in the corner where they were huddled together, before a shattered display. Eber cried out when he saw the open door and Spock advancing towards them. The three leaped away from the mess, where Spock saw the Captain lying bloodied and shirtless. His back was on the ground, his limbs at an awkward angle, and underneath his writhing body were shards of glass. They were stained with varying intensities of the same scarlet red, like a leaded mosaic. A singular gash ran vertically down the entirety of his torso. Jim heaved, and blood sputtered from his gaping mouth, trickling down his chin and cheeks as he rasped out a single word, “S- _Spock._ ”

_Everything moved at warp speed. He was blind. Then he saw stars. One second, he was keeling over on ground beside Jim, the skin on his knees splitting open from the broken glass. The next, he was on his feet again, sprinting towards a cowering figure. His arm met a face of fear with a dull squelch. Fists blazing. Raining down into a face that grew more and more disfigured, following the rhythm of guttural screaming. It sounded like it faded into space. It made him want to strike harder, harder, harder. He wanted the flesh to blacken. Hands were clasped around a squirming throat. Nails were buried in pulsatiing flesh. Choking, spit, blood. A deafening crack, and the body stopped moving. Blood had gathered in his cuticles. He was not sure whose blood. He was yanked up from the ground. The room was filling up. People pushed past him. A pair of warm hands came into sight, reaching for his, and suddenly he was flooded. With fear. Peace. Anger._ Love. 

Uhura had tears streaming down her cheeks. She embraced him until his shaking gradually ceased. She entwined her fingers with Spock’s, and moved his hands to the sides of her face, where they burned with such a familiar heat. She was saying something in Vulcan. _Pehkau. Pehkau. Shroi. Shroi._ She slowly disentangled their fingers and held his face in her hands. He felt himself brimming as her skin chafed his. The feeling came over him like a full-body tingle. _Ashaya._ It was love, but not for her.

“Nyota,” he said.

“No, don’t. Don’t talk. You don’t have to say anything.”

“I need to tell you something, Nyota.”

“No, you never needed to. I know.” She took a deep breath in, tears falling from where they dewed on her lashes. She looked at him and held his face tighter. “I _know,_ Spock. I’m touching you. So I _know_.”

He stopped fidgeting, and traced her mind in his. "You know."

The racing in Spock’s mind had come to a halt. He felt himself relax — something he did not imagine, in the last several months, that he could do while he had his bare hands around Uhura’s head, or contrariwise. She knew. The dreams, the flashbacks, the visions. She knew.

_Jim._

“He’s been taken into Medical," she said. "He’ll be okay. They’ll stitch him up. He’ll be as good as new. Or—as before. He’ll be okay. You’ll see him again.”

She was rambling, because she was hurt and embarrassed. He felt her grief in his chest, dissolving over the faint sense of relief she had first melded into him.

“Nyota, I am sorry.”

“Really?” she said, voice cracking at the last syllable. “You don’t _feel_ sorry about it. You feel more relieved and… happy… than anything else.”

“No, I am truly sorry for having evaded your concern all this time,” Spock told her. “I regret not informing you about the memories that have plagued my mind for so long. I should have told you.”

"It's okay."

"My reticence was unwarranted."

"No, please, I understand."

"It was inconsiderate of your feelings."

"That doesn't matter anymore."

"I regret that you found out about them this way."

There was a short silence before Uhura’s hands fell from his face. “Wait, is _that_ what you think I’ve just figured out?”

Spock searched her face. “What else?”

“Are you being serious?” she asked in earnest. When he stared back at her vacantly, she gave him a weak smile and moved his hands away from her face, blinking back the hot tears that were forming in her eyes again. “Spock, you’re a real conundrum, you know that?”

She briefly dusted at nothing on her uniform before turning away. “Well, anyway,” she said in a strained casual manner. “I should let you know that I’ve tagged Danara. So we can find her and that other bastard who tried to kill Jim.”

“Have they escaped?”

“Yeah. Scotty said they threatened him before security showed up. He beamed them out somewhere. We can use the coordinates in the transporter’s history, along with the tag I placed on them before they got away.” Uhura forced a smile. “We’ll get them, Spock.”

“What tracking device did you use?” he asked.

She coughed, and said, “The necklace you gave me.”

Spock paused for a moment. “Had you not misplaced it?”

“I found it with the ship's emission sensors. They give off a small radioactive reading that’s particularly distinguishable. Your planet was intense,” she said monotonously, before her eyes turned to the ground. “I found it before we met in the turbolift. Also found your… prescription. There were two readings in your room.” She looked up at him and continued softly. “Almost thought I’d broken the stone in half or something… in my rage.”

Spock was unsure of what to say. They stood there, a foot apart, both looking apologetically at the other. But he chose not to apologise again.

“Thank you, Nyota," he said instead.

“You’re welcome, Spock.”

Her teeth sunk into her bottom lip for a second as she hesitated to say something else. “It’s kind of funny though, isn’t it? That in a way, I ended up literally losing you because of Jim. Like, with the necklace you gave me being a symbol of your… affection and all.” She tried a smirk, but it transpired as more of a cringe.

Spock’s eyebrow raised itself. “Jim spoke to me about this briefly today. He is under the impression that you believe he has made attempts to terminate our relationship.”

Uhura pursed her lips at the coldness of his last phrase.

“Well, maybe not intentionally,” she said. “But whatever it was, it looks like he was successful.”

She looked at Spock to find him positively frowning.

“Has our relationship been terminated?” he asked, the question reverberating in his head as soon as he voiced it out loud. Her jaw dropped, and she furiously wiped at her eyes when tears welled up in them again.

“Oh my _god_ , Spock, what is the matter with you?” she hissed, a deep pink crawling to her cheeks. “How do you expect us to stay together when you’re in love with someone else?”

When she saw his perplexed expression, she threw her hands up in a sheepish fury, and allowed the tears to flow from her eyes this time as she cried, “You’re in love with your _t’lema_ —your _t’hy’la_ —your _Jim Kirk!_ ”

* * *

Glossary

_Lerash-khush:_ Diamond 

_Kravau kov:_ Cheat rock 

_Kai’tan firan:_ Brace for mental discipline/pain repression

“Hoch QIH! Hoch 'oH! nuq wIlo'bogh DaH?”: “Everything is destroyed! All of it! What do we do now?” 

_“jIQoS… jIQoS… jIQoS…”:_ “I’m sorry… I’m sorry… I’m sorry…” 

_Pehkau:_ Stop 

_Shroi:_ Listen 

_Ashaya:_ Love; a deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude toward a person 

_ t'lema: _ One who walks in dreams; an obscure reference to precognition and possibly a method for locating a _t'hy'la_


	4. Scotty (You're A Long Time Deid)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scotty has Spock opening up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "You're a long time deid" is basically "You're a long time dead", which should mean something along the lines of "life comes @ u fast bitch!!"
> 
> But seriously, it is actually a phrase I quite like. It reminds me of one of my favourite quotes from a K. Steele comic: "You've spent an infinity years not being born yet and you will spend another infinity years being dead. Finish your cereal and go outside."
> 
> (P.S. Sorry if I kept you waiting for this update!)

_A liminal space. Not in-between. Both. Not teetering. Falling. Not fire at the feet, but an infinite desert, bare in the glaring sunlight. Alcohol on blood. Numbness from pain. Speech in silence. Morphine, and a needle pricking the flesh. Life and death. Again, life and death. Always life and death. Hand in hand. Cold. Warm. So, so, so warm. Spock?_

His skin seared. He had withdrawn his hand instinctively, but only realised he was cradling it when a voice perforated the syrup-thick static in the air. Or — no, it was just in his ears.

“Spock, you doing okay?”

His gaze settled. Bones was staring intently at him from the opposite side of the biobed, the surgical mask and scrub cap pulled over his face and head only accentuating his scrutinising eyes. Spock swallowed and let his hands fall to his sides, straightening. He tried his best not to notice Jim’s quickening rise and fall of the chest in front of him, as if proof that the electricity had coursed through the both of them. It was difficult to discern if sensations were real or simply in his mind these days — although being the Vulcan that he was, the two were very much interlinked. Not that it helped his case.

“Spock?” There was an unfamiliar look in the doctor’s eyes. The clear hazel contained their usual hardness, but something was gentle in the way they held Spock’s frantic gaze. Nonetheless, Spock could not bring himself to speak, and Bones resorted to sighing behind his mask. “Look, you know why I even let you in here. But if it’s too much for you to see him like this again, you need to let yourself out.”

Spock merely blinked in response. Minutes earlier, the doctor had allowed him entry into the emergency operating room with an abnormal absence of demur. There was not even the customary — and absolutely warranted — grousing under his breath about the operating room being a sterile environment. Not even when Spock lost his composure as soon as he set eyes on the captain, and reached out to clutch his flaccid hand, still smeared and speckled with blood. Not even when the two nurses tending to Jim’s wounds shot their chief medical officer vaguely reproachful glances. Of course, upon hearing Bones’ words to Spock now, their glances this time were between each other, and full of amused understanding.

“Well? Are you gonna stay here breathing all over him while we move around his guts or what?”

Spock finally found his voice. “I do not see the necessity in such a procedure. The Captain’s injuries do not require you to disturb the arrangement of his internal organs.”

“Just a figure of speech, Spock.”

“It is hardly the time to be using ambiguous language. Truly, humans are quite—”

“Illogical, yeah, okay. I’m starting to realise letting you in here was pretty damn illogical to begin with.” Bones handed the dermal regenerator in his hand to one of the nurses, motioning for her to continue before walking over to Spock. He snapped his gloves off, placed an awkward hand on the Vulcan’s shoulder and led him away from the biobed. “Listen, Spock. You’re not in the best shape or headspace right now. You need rest, not a real-time show of your boyfriend getting sewn up.”

“The Captain and I are not in a romantic relationship.”

“Right, whatever it is — whatever it is that causes you to immediately beat to death anyone who hurts him.”

“I was under the assumption that you and the Captain shared a close friendship, and that you would at least understand the reasoning behind, if not share, my reaction to his death.” Spock could feel his body burning up as he stepped closer towards the doctor.

“Death?” Bones echoed.

The fire licked at Spock’s throat. “Yes, Doctor, his death. Shall I repeat myself?”

“Jim is nowhere _near_ death. They gave him a cut that touched none of his major organs, and a minor fracture from the fall, but he isn’t even _close_ , Spock. He's been in worse states from _bar fights_.”

“I—” Spock stopped himself short. He knew what he had seen in the interrogation room. Jim choking on his own blood, nearly swimming in it. The way his skin shone that ghastly, pearly grey. The blue of his veins. The white of his nails. Pupils dilated and darting. _His hand on the glass door—_

But there had not been a glass door. Not this time.

“I was mistaken,” came Spock’s shaky realisation. He looked to Jim on the biobed, then to his own hands, front and back. Somehow they ached to sear again. Had they really? It was such an unfamiliar feeling, he wondered if he had imagined it. Instead of approaching Jim, however, to hold that softly calloused hand, he willed himself to maintain the distance. At least until he could remove the image of death from his head. Or comprehend why his entire psyche would _hurt_ for Jim.  _Your t’lema_ , Uhura had called him. He felt himself shudder.

“You’re not looking great, Spock. Get some rest,” Bones said.

Spock gave him his usual trained look of apathy and pressed the button for the doors to open. “I am afraid I must contact Mr Scott and begin tracing down the Vidiians,” he intoned, and strode out before he could be berated.

As if the doctor had comm-ed Engineering, however, a minute later when Spock walked into the main engineering room, he was greeted by the sound of Montgomery “Scotty” Scott exclaiming, “Commander, you look fackin' horrible!”

“I do not see how such a comment is necessary."

“It’s necessary because you don’t seem to realise!” Scotty’s features twisted as he tried to study Spock’s face. “Have you been eatin’? I thought the crew was exaggeratin' when they said you were off... Look at you, you’re lookin' all peely-wally, like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“That would be impossible. Ghosts are a figment of the human imagination.”

Scotty cracked a grin. “Then you’ve half-seen a ghost.”

The Vulcan contemplated the sentence for two point eight seconds, to Scotty’s delight. “The logic still holds that ghosts are imaginary.”

“Just because it’s imaginary don’t mean it cannae affect you!”

Spock exhaled sharply at the words. “Mr Scott, we will not trifle about the ontology of the supernatural any longer. I am here for the coordinates of the Vidiians’ location, to which you allowed them to escape.” He knew his last clause was technically unnecessary and would only convey accusation, but he also knew such an effect would cause the other man to quieten.

As expected, Scotty pursed his mouth shut, smile waning. He straightened in his chair as he turned his attention to his console’s screen. “Ah — yes. Of course. Sorry, Commander. I’ve got it right here. You — you must be anxious to find them."

He opened the transporter log, selected the most recent series of coordinates at the top of the list, and waited for the system to locate it, all the while chewing his bottom lip.

“I checked right after they energised. It was Qo’noS, sir,” he said, a second before the search result came up to confirm it.

Spock scanned the words and stiffened.

“Beam me down.”

“Sir?”

“ _Beam me down,_ ” he repeated.

“Beam ye _down_? You can’t possibly—” Scotty broke off when he saw the dark look in his commander’s eyes. He licked his lips nervously before continuing. “Look, I checked the location right after they left the _Enterprise_. The heat signatures there are pure high. I don’t know why or _how_ those bastards are mixing around with the most vicious and xenophobic creatures in the galaxy, but they are. And you can’t just go down there — _by yourself_ , no less — expecting them to be completely alone and unarmed!”

He shifted his gaze to the floor and mumbled, “Especially since they were already armed when they barged in here… It’s not like I let them off on my own accord.”

Spock took a heavy step towards him. “Mr Scott, we cannot allow them to flee any further. I am ordering you to beam me down.”

“Please, sir. This is madness—”

“Mr Scott.”

“The last time you stepped into Klingon territory, I heard you almost got killed—”

“Mr Scott.”

“— if it hadn’t been for Khan and his… what was that? A machine gun?”

“It would be preferable—”

“You could all be dead, sir! You, Lieutenant Uhura—”

“— if you would cease speaking.”

“— and even Captain Kirk!”

“ _Silence, Mr Scott!_ ”

“Commander.” Scotty’s voice shook as he shrank into the chair. His eyes were as wide as saucers and glued to Spock’s hand, which had found its way onto the phaser at his belt. “C-Commander, you need to step back.”

Spock blinked. He looked down to his hand gripping the phaser, an instinctive finger already set to change its setting from 'stun' to 'kill'. He was looming over the console, his stance one ready to fight. Then he saw the quiet trembling of his chief engineer, who looked about prepared to bolt. There was no fight here. 

As soon as he caught the glimpse of compunction on Spock’s face, Scotty feebly said, “Sir, if the Captain were here, he wouldn’t let you do this either.”

“The Captain is, however, _not_ here,” Spock stated, his hands feeling strangely cold and empty as he said it.

“I — I know, sir.”

“So do as I say.”

Scotty said nothing for a moment, a clock ticking in his head. Then he sniffed, swallowed, and pushed himself out of his seat. He looked his superior square in the face. “With all due respect, sir, I’m only following Captain Kirk’s orders.”

Spock’s eyes narrowed. “What, may I ask, were these orders?”

“He—” There was a beat. “— also instructed me not to divulge these orders to you.”

“That is hardly plausible.”

“Well, you know Jim. Always doin’ the unexpected.” Scotty tried a smile.

Spock did not return it. “I did not say it was unexpected. It was unbelievable.”

“Jim is pretty unbelievable too, isn’t he?”

Spock found he agreed but he did not voice it, choosing instead to glare at the man.

“Sir, please,” Scotty started again. “The chances of you being outnumbered and cornered is _actually_ substantial. Didn’t Lieutenant Uhura say that one of them was speakin’ in Klingon? They’re probably allies, or some kind of… degenerate version of Klingons. Not that hard to believe either, considerin’ the way those bogies looked. Ever seen anythin’ that ugly in yer life? Point is, even if I was lyin’ to you about the Captain’s orders, I don’t see fit for you to go down there without a plan.”

“ _Are_ you lying?”

“No! I’m just sayin’, _if_ I were.”

Spock brooded over his words. His logic was sound, obviously. Klingon space was dangerous and volatile. Walking into Qo’noS alone, even with a body three times stronger and quicker than the average human’s, was nugatory when it came to facing Klingons. Rage-fuelled adrenaline enhanced the Vulcan’s solidity, but it was still hardly sufficient to engage in close combat with a Klingon army. Of course he required a plan. It was mortifyingly stupid not to have one, especially if he ended up being killed, and had to have the _Enterprise_ ’s chief engineer explain how their commander charged into Qo’noS out of a paroxysm. Even though he was not as averse to emotion as he had been two years ago, he knew an emotional outburst was no way for a Vulcan to die. He was losing himself more and more every day.

“I have no choice but to concede. Your logic is sound,” Spock said finally, which gained an instant sigh of relief from Scotty. “Furthermore, I am compelled to adhere to the Captain’s orders, despite his current absence and your refusal to disclose his orders.”

“I won’t get into the specifics, sir,” Scotty said. “But they’re really just orders to keep you safe and, well, alive — as far within our reach as we can.”

“As who can?”

“What’s that?”

“You used first-person pronouns in their plural form. To whom are you referring, in addition to yourself?”

Scotty visibly froze.

“Uh, Keenser. Obviously,” he chirped, and hastily sat back down at his station.

“You are an incredibly incompetent liar.”

“Commander, why don’t we start formin’ our plan, eh? I’ve already wasted so much of your time.” The man’s forced laugh came out in hacks.

“Very well,” Spock said, to his relief once again.

Scotty began keying into his viewscreen, pulling up a radar map moments later. To the bottom right of the map, where a delineated region glowed a deep orange to signify the high population density, a blue dot sat in the corner, a ‘ping’ sound emitting from the console every time it flashed on the screen.

“There she is,” Scotty said. “That brilliant rock of yours.”

“The Vulcan stone?” Spock peered more closely.

“Aye.”

“Are you able to begin tracking its movement as we speak? If the Vidiians leave the planet before we arrive, knowledge of their last location would be helpful.”

“Already did so, sir. As soon as they left. Did you think I was about to let two bawbag-lookin’ aliens get away with tryin’ to kill my captain? I’d even offer to go to Klingon with you if I didn’t have to stay here,” Scotty huffed. He tilted his head downwards to glance at his stomach. “And, y’know, if I were less out of shape or whatever.”

“We have adequate staff aboard the ship with combat experience. Naturally, they will accompany me on this away mission.”

“I’m just sayin’, I would _if_ I could.” Scotty scowled defensively. “Anyway, I was thinkin’ — can Mr Sulu fly a shuttle ship into Qo’noS?”

“Mr Sulu is the helmsman of this ship. I am quite certain he could steer a shuttle ship, especially considering any Starfleet officer should be capable of doing so by their commencement.”

Scotty shook his head. “No, I mean, could he fly it into Qo’noS without physically being in the shuttle?”

“Why would he—”

“As diversion, sir.” Scotty pointed to a spot on the map slightly north-west of the blue signal, but still in the orange region. “Let’s assume the shuttle landed right here. It’s gonna catch the Klingons’ attention for sure, and the Vidiians’. Most likely the Klingons will be the ones goin’ after the ship, and the Vidiians are gonna run the other way, bein’ the feartie-cats they are. So—” He shifted his finger. “— I could beam the away team just a little further down, in whichever direction we see them fleein’ on the radar.”

Spock tilted his head. “An interesting suggestion.”

“Interesting? And that’s Vulcan for what? Good? Bad?”

“Uneconomical, but oddly functional.”

“Functional — a braw compliment comin’ from you, Commander!” Scotty gave a surprised guffaw.

Spock looked at him, and he cautiously looked back. The Vulcan felt a surge of thankfulness towards the man, and the weak but routinely genuine smile on his face.

“I am grateful for your help.” There was a modest lilt to his voice.

“Ah, I’m just doin’ my job, sir,” Scotty replied, smiling fully again. “Besides, it’s not me you ought to thank. Thank the clever lass that snuck the amulet onto that small one in the nick of time! If it weren’t for your burd’s quick thinkin’, you might’ve never seen those Vidiians again.”

“Yes, the Lieutenant is keen indeed.”

Scotty chuckled. “I’m sure that’s Vulcan for ‘my-girlfriend-is-fackin'-brilliant’.”

“It is not. Moreover, Nyota and I have ended our relationship.”

“Ah — oh.” Scotty grimaced. “I didn’t know. Sorry. Eh, I’m guessin’ that’s why you’re lookin’ so peaky, then?”

“I do not believe so.”

“Ah. Okay. I just thought…” He let himself trail off into a cough. “Um, I’m guessin’ it’s pretty recent, so. I just hope you’re all right, sir.”

Spock saw the profound sincerity in the seamed face again. It was in the way his crow’s feet creased beside his eyes, how they rose in a manner more tender and uncertain than usual. And there was the smile. Benign, yet indistinctly playful, as if saying to him, “Been there.” He emanated compassion without the sympathy.

“I have not been myself lately.”

Spock only realised he had spoken when Scotty’s eyes widened slightly in response.

“Oh. Well. It—it’s good that you’re openin’ up about it. Finally! I mean, I’m not sure if I’m the best person to— I just heard from the rest that… hm.” Scotty scratched the back of his head as though words might fall from his scalp. “It’s just that lots of us have been worried about you, Commander. You’ve been acting kind of different ever since Khan. Or, well, to be more specific, since you watched Captain Kirk…” He shut his mouth.

“Die."

“Yeah, that. I wasn’t sure how to put it, y’know? After all, he’s not dead anymore.”

Spock simply made an faint noise in place of his correction that no, it was not watching Jim’s death that had affected him. It did, of course, but that had been in the moment. A painful moment, but a moment nonetheless. What came after, the expanse of emptiness, was what hurt much more. It was not the losing that had gnawed at him, but the loss. The void and its absoluteness. The knowing and the feeling. It was like something had been ripped out of him and sutured back into place. Yet the complacency of the unmarred consciousness was gone, replaced instead with a nauseating humility. It knew what had been returned to it could be torn away again. It understood transience, even though life was meant to be forever, forever, forever, until it stopped. Knowing death while being alive. _A liminal space._

“Have you tried talking to Jim about this?” Scotty interjected his thoughts.

“The Captain is aware of my relief that he is no longer deceased.”

“ _Everyone’s_ relieved he’s not dead, that’s a given. And that’s not what I’m talkin’ about. Have you tried talkin' to him about your… feelings, and all that. How you’re copin’, or just things runnin’ through that mental Vulcan head of yours.”

“Feelings,” Spock repeated.

“Yeah, y’know,” Scotty gave a tense shrug. “Obviously you two had — _have_ — a thing with each other. Not sure what it is exactly, but the Captain can’t function without you onboard the same ship. Always worked like two well-oiled cogs in a machine.” When Spock raised his brows inquisitively at the simile, he took the opportunity to josh, “Trust me, I’d know what that looks like. I’m an engineer.”

“A thing,” Spock found himself parroting again.

“I dunno what it is, yeah? I’m just sayin’ that everyone sees it, and sometimes you can be a little repressed, so this is me tellin’ you straight out that you need to talk to him. As my ma used to say, _you’re a long time deid!_ Even with a lifespan like yours, Commander, time and space consumes you too, so you better get this off your chest before it's too late.”

“Mr Scott. Does ‘everyone’ include the Captain?”

Scotty’s figure deflated. “You’re really pickin’ at the details here, aren’t you, mate?”

“I only wish to clarify.”

“All right, then, yes. Yes, the Captain sees it too. That’s why he went out of his way to give us an order to protect you _specifically_ from danger, because he knows you’ve been off these few months. And he doesn’t want to lose you because you decide to go off on a rampage one day, which is precisely what you were about to do minutes ago!” He paused, brows furrowing. “Which, thinkin’ about now, was _really_ accurate of him.” He paused again. “But that just goes to show how well he knows you, doesn’t it?!”

It did. How fascinating and unsurprising that it did. Spock could not help but ease into a smile. Softly, and warmly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Also, I just need to say. I know it's weird that the Vidiians could beam all the way to Qo'noS, but it's post-STID and this is fanfiction, so let's just say Starfleet gave Scotty his transwarp transporter equation back or he figured it out from the device Khan stole............. >_> Another thing: I was re-watching STID yesterday and I only just caught the Mudd's Women reference Sulu makes when he gets the conn. Doesn't really affect this timeline, but still. Oh yes, and [insert customary apology for potential butchering of Scottish slang]. I'd find it worse than messing up ST canons, to be honest.
> 
> Okay, thanks for reading!!!!!!!! I truly appreciate all your subscriptions/kudos/bookmarks/comments, or even just reading the whole fic so far. It really makes my day. n_n


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